Date: Sat, 24 Feb 2007 15:41:36 +0000 (GMT)
From: S. Schmidt
Subject: Bad Timing
This story is based on the characters of the US TV-Show "Queer as Folk".
It's a gapfiller for Season 4, episode 14
Comments are welcome
BAD TIMING
@2007 by Stefan
"After four to seven days the initial strong and stinging pain is over,
which is, among others, even strengthened by a spasmodic tension of the
back. This happens in connection with the creation of the fibrocartilage
callus around the fracture."
Great. Still four to seven days without real sex. I mean, the kind of sex
we both like. Hard and fast. Brian's absolutely incapable of propping
himself on his arm without falling into agony. Bloody clavicle.
On the other hand... it hasn't always to be the "usual" sex I think,
lifting myself from the computer stool. There's sex in the shower, sex on
the chair; I can ride him or, for a change, I could do him... um, the half
of a year's already gone? I don't think so.
"After two to three months the clavicle begins to strengthen back to
normal, to gain its former full strength after half a year."
And all this after this trip of horror playing in his mind, keeping us off
for too long to be happy again.
Oops. Did I say "happy"? Is this beautiful animal named Brian Kinney able
to be happy? I believe, he can. He just doesn't know it.
I peer over the computer monitor and see him lying on the futon, his face
relaxed. His eyes behind the lids moving fast as being in REM-Phase and he
seems to dream. His hands clenching to fists. Even in his sleep he can't
let loose. But then, a smile scurries over his face.
How can I ever tell him that I love his smile when it's open and without
cynicsm and mockery? I see it rarely, but if I do, it's only for me. And
for Gus.
Who's ever claimed Brian wouldn't do romance? When he's going home hand in
hand with me, throwing me upon the bed instead on the hard kitchen table?
(Even if he will deny it under torture – cuddling is better in bed than on
the table, right?) When he leans his forehead against mine and admit his
weakness? When Babylon's music is playing only for us and he's presenting
to the world how much he likes me? Even the hustler he hired me for my
birthday was romantic because, for Brian, there's nothing better in the
whole world than good sex. And this present said more than any word he
could say. Even if this is playing only in his exclusive
Brian-Kinney-universe no one else has entrance to. Sometimes not even me.
"Ow". Brian's shout of pain scares me from my thoughts. Shit, not one of
his nightmares again.
"You ok?" I ask, already on my way to the futon Brian's lying on with
pain ridden face, touching his left upper arm. Over his black, woolen
jacket are taped elastic bandages, protecting his back and shoulder. I
place myself next to him, facing him. He even can't dress or undress
himself, but I warn myself not to let out a single word about that. Brian
hates to be dependent. He's already thrown me out of the loft and out of
his life just because I wanted to help him.
I watch his long lashes.
I could have killed him instantly when he was wobbling on his damn bicycle
so desperately and at the ends of his strength over the finishing line of
the Liberty Ride. To do something shitty like this after a cancer disease
is bordering madness. Well, Brian Kinney is the master of the
well-controlled madness. Everything has its special place in the loft –
even me.
"Yeah, I'll be alright", he says with his gentle voice that sometimes
takes my sanity away. Fight is useless.
"I heard it from the best authority."
Huh? Probably still one of his nightmares. His face lies in semidarkness
and his hair falls over his forehead, but he tries to smile and that's a
lot. With Brian, you never know which fly on the wall has annoyed
him. Yesterday evening I convinced myself that Brian had only reached the
finishing line because he saw me standing there. Waiting for him. The
velvet darkness. The snowfall, suffocating all noise except his panting,
that was blowing over to me. The blue blinking of his warning light on his
bike, the low sqeaking of the pedals and Ben's craven cheering I had to
join after Debbie had repressed me from running to him, hugging him and
never letting him go again.
But I have to let him go to keep him.
"Did you fuck Tom Cruise?"
There you are, we are back to Brian's essential things in life.
"Everybody knows, he's not gay", I answer automatically.
"Adrian Brody?"
"Niiiice, but no."
"Tobey Maguire?"
"Pleeease."
"What?"
Brian is so up the pole. Why does he always have to conclude from himself
to others? Why does he think I had half of Hollywood in my bed? Does he
think me so irresistible? Maybe so. My heart jumps for a moment. I bend
over him and whisper into his ear: "Connor James."
"No shit!"
I love his husky laughter.
"Sounds like you had a most excellent adventure."
I cannot do anything but laugh with him. "Sounds like you did too."
Abruptly he's serious again. His eyes are fathomless in the pale, orange
light.
I make a vow to myself not to let him off before I figure out what real
colour his eyes are. It oscillates from light to light and mood to
mood. Now he's having his dark phase. Dark and deep like a moor.
Taylor? I try to fix up myself. You're not gonna get this
little-boy's-fancy again?
"Cycling down life's endless highways I had time to think", he says.
My heart is beating in my throat. "About?"
He's speaking slow and accentuated as if he has to explain it to a
child. "About what I'd do differently if I survived cancer... AND sleeping
in a tent."
I suppress the impulse to grin. He can never be serious.
"Equally unpleasant, I agree. But now that you have, what did you
decide?"
"The first thing I'd do differently?" He's pointing over his head in the
direction of the bedroom. "Is the bedroom. Get rid of that thing over the
bed."
Now I not only suppress my grin but my disappointment too. Brian's never
going to change. "Yeah, it's very nineties, I agree."
The magic is broken and I hoist myself from the mattress. Was this all that
had come from his musings? The bed? Brian's biggest treasure? At least he
hadn't locked himself up in his cave but is lying on the floor on one of
his posh futons to be close to me. At least I can talk myself into this.
Watched from the bar stool this cognition seems to be absurd, but there has
to be a reason for his action. Brian Kinney does nothing without a
reason. And he's never going to make it easy for me to understand it,
albeit I would claim - even by a threat of dead sentence – that I can see
through him like through glass.
Liar.
Brian weaves his net like a spider in darkness. And if I would try to help
him up from the futon now he would snap at me like the dog for a bone for
sure. It takes a while before his long body has struggled in slow motion to
his feet and it hurts me as it hurts him.
"And then, I'd like to spend more time with my son. He's at an age now
when he needs a strong, masculine influence."
My itching to help him up is strong, but I have to restrain myself.
"Especially being raised by a couple of dykes. He's got to know about
Armani, Gucci, Prada, not just football and engine tuning."
Shit. 'The strong, masculine influence'? Weren't these his words when we
had been together under the shower for the first time? When he thought me a
little boy he had deflowered and after all this his prophecy had come true
that he would be always with me, no matter how many guys I would fuck after
him? And does this mean, now he thinks me adult and equal?
Rather he doesn't, because now he puts on this aloof grin that takes back
his serious words and nobody knows exactly if he's joking, or not. To be
honest, neither do I. At least he can open his can of beer by himself and
I'm leafing disinterestedly through a magazine lying on the desk. Brian's
always in need of reading material. That's one of the things I like about
him. That's one of the MANY things I like about him – if I'm not gonna send
him to hell, like now.
"Unquestionably. Any other decisions?" I ask testily and half heartedly
expect, that he wants to travel to Milan next year to inspect Bugatti's
Spring collection.
"I want you to move back in."
--------------------------------------------------------
His facial expression is worth a photo. Yes, I could nail it to the wall
next to the drawing he once made of me and that had been so good that I had
to buy it. My own, private jerk-off-file.
Justin's still looking as if piglets would start raining down from the
ceiling. Okay, I'm gonna say this just one more time before my guts leave
me and to make him see how serious I am about it.
"I said I'd like it if you and I were to live together." Aww, this came
out not the way I had planned. I didn't want to be THAT explicit. And my
punishment comes promptly.
"Are you proposing?"
"Of course not. With the sudden and unexpected plethora of gay
marriages, I'd hate to add to the glut." Jesus fucking Christ. Why's he
pissing me off so easily sometimes?
Justin hears my sharp tone and slaps his hand in front of his
face. Good. Shame on you, Justin. He looks shocked though. Is it really
that unbelievable if I have a plea? I mean, I never ask for too much, do I?
I never demanded he move in with me before, yet alone, asked him to do so.
Slowly his face turns from shock to furtively joy.
"All this running back and forth between here and Daphne's is
time-consuming, and inconvenient. I mean, just last week you forgot a pair
of socks and had to borrow mine."
Now, that has given him the rest. Was it meant seriously or not? Why on
earth I have to make a joke of everything, while I'm actually dead serious?
Didn't we always do fine together? He's neat and clean, he never makes a
mess (except at his next Jambalaya cooking sessions), he doesn't cock up my
hardwood floor, he closes the tube of toothpaste and even the toilet lid.
Paralysed for a moment, I think, Kinney, you never wanted a pet, did
you. So, stop thinking of Justin as a Persian cat. This game here is
serious.
We've always worked together just fine. Sometime we even harmonized. For
laughably short moments I looked forward coming home because he would be
there. Sometimes he cooked and I even ate it. After seven o'clock.
His sneakers stood next to my Prada-loafers, his underwear always mingled
with mine and I always had a battery of his favourite soap in stock. Olive
oil with pomegranate. He's really a spoilt brat. We've almost been like an
old marriage coup...
No, of course we have NOT been an old marriage ... thingies. Whenever he
was getting on my nerves there was always Babylon's dark room. As if we
haven't tried out ourselves each crook and cranny and it was leaving behind
a cozy feeling of famil... boredom?
Justin now looks like as if he's feeling sick. I never thought that my
suggestion could have such an impact. Maybe he compares me secretly with
this Ian. Well, the thought of roses and rings makes ME sick.
I lean over the counter and look straight and seriously into his eyes."And
as for the times when you're not around, I wouldn't particularly mind it if
you were."
Briefly he beams at me with this disbelieving smile and still doesn't grasp
that I'm as grave as I can be.
"I've been waiting for you to ask me that since the first night you
brought me here."
Shit, did I really never ask his this question? Probably I haven't. Kinney,
you're such a fool. And yet he was living here practically for ages and you
never noticed. Okay, there was a time when he was supposed to sleep on the
sofa (but never had), and there was a time when I was throwing his bloody
underwear into his face. When I was throwing him out together with his
sneakers, his soap and his Moby-CD. Did I really miss him that much that I
had to pick him up myself from the noble New York hotel room and to buy him
a first class ticket back to Pittsburgh because five guys didn't fit into
the fucking Jeep? Did I throw him out a second time when I didn't need a
Nanny to wipe away my barf from the loo and to push a thermometer into my
ass because I was even too weak to open the bloody loft door?
Kinney, you're thinking too much. Always been your blemish. You're never
gonna get rid of Justin. Never ever.
"Well, then what do you say? Should I make room in my drawers for your
drawers?"
I pass him and ruffle his hair. It's his decision and he doesn't have to
answer me here and now. Inwardly though I listen to each sound coming from
him, but the only thing I hear is a weak sigh. He's still sitting at the
kitchen bar and rummaging through his hair while I sit down on the stairs
leading to the bedroom and wait.
How long is it, since he cooked chicken soup for me after Deb's recipe?
When I had been too weak to kick him out because there was no way he should
see my frailness? My barfing attacks, my uncontrollable trembling with
coldness while inside I was burning? Burning to a crisp from the fucking
radiation. Who wants to see his partner this way?
I snort. Justin wanted me to see this way. There was never a single jerk of
disgust. He seems to have a masochistic tendency... funny I realize only
now. But we can't try out, because my shoulder is almost unmovable and I
absolutely don't fancy to pump my stomach with pain killers with a nice
greeting to the kidneys. I'm fed up with docs and hospitals, with
injections and clysters, pubic hair shaves and anaesthetics. Not to mention
the antiseptic stench that will always be hanging in my nostrils from now
on.
Justin never asked about all these things and yet I'm sure he knows all
about it. It simply didn't bother him. He wanted to heal me like a magical
medicine man and he succeeded.
He's still sitting there, brooding, as if I wasn't here. Did I scare him
that much with my proposition? Since when is Justin Taylor afraid of
something? He's always been my brave boy. He even dared to inflict me this
tea that smelled like Yak shit and tasted likewise. I never told him the
real reason for the "lifting of the Titanic". He may believe in the power
of Chinese herbs – that's just a venial sin. My real sin was punished in
hospital. The whole bullshit I discharged year after year only to be free.
Free from Jack. Free from Joan. Free from Claire and those little shits she
calls her sons.
My sublimation happened with Justin's acceptance. He pushed me to the
floor, shouted, what a pathetic motherfucking piece of shit I was for
shutting him out and trying to be a hero all on my own. Sure. Brian
Kinney's invincible. He's amoral, he's got only feelings that are to be
satisfied by a blow job, he's untouchable like Godfather. And then he had
fed me. With this fucking chicken soup.
A burst of laughter is creeping up. And what Mikey did when he was showing
up here? He wanted to cook chicken soup and forgot to bring the
chicken. Did I ever have more than the essentials in my fridge as beer and
poppers? You know me bad, Mikey. After all these years.
At least I could rely on Theodore, as always. And on Cynthia. Considering
how many times I had saved Ted's ass, it was only just and equitable. No. I
never count up. Either I do something for someone or I don't. The thank you
afterwards – forget it. The brain has always ruled my heart.
But now... Justin's finished with pondering.
--------------------------------------------------------
Somehow, my brain is dried out. I swing around and see him sitting on the
stairs leading to the bedroom. The back straightened up because of his
shoulder and a strained expression in his eyes. He's staring at me. My
first impulse had been to jump to the ceiling for joy, but Brian doesn't
like big emotional scenes. Shit, why do I always have to be considerate of
HIM? If I want to jump for joy around the loft it's my business, isn't it?
But, it's just as well. If I watch it closely, he's not only inviting me to
move back into the loft, but to live with him. To share his life. To give
me more than sex. Why am I just so damn unsure about his true intentions?
I feel magically drawn by his eyes. I have to go to him and sit by his
side. All this is just a classic type of bad timing.
"You want me to move back in? Why?"
I rather sense his sigh than that I hear it. "I thought I had mentioned
already that it's more convenient for you."
Convenient. Aha. "And what about your convenience? Or do you think it more
convenient to have me ready to fuck instead of go hunting?" Fuck me. That
just slipped out of me. His eyes are almost black. But he can restrain
himself.
"You can take that as you like."
Damn it, Brian! Tell me now what you feel! I'm so sick of this constant
insecurity.
"I just thought, after you were back from ... Ian, you had accepted the
rules. You knew what awaits you and you played the game. You knew where you
belong, and you knew that I would never lie to you." His lips twist and I
know what he is thinking. Of course he never hesitated with his tricks, but
there are other kind of lies.
"Brian", I start softly. "I know the rules. I only thought you finally
would change them."
He interrupts me. "You mean, to ask you to live with me wasn't a change of
rules?"
He gets up and walks towards the bathroom. Shit, why can't I never say what
I mean? I run after him and find him in front of the mirror, tugging at his
bandages.
"Let me do it."
He glares at me, but gives in. I can sense his disappointment physically,
but first I have to help him getting rid of his clothes. While I roll the
bandages he unbuttons his jacket with one hand and drops it down. I help
him off with his trousers. I know, he doesn't want me to play Nanny, but he
has to come to terms with it. I forced him before to accept my help. I
strip off his slip too. It's not that grey something anymore, he had to
wear for such a long time. His scar has healed and left nothing but a
narrow, pink stripe, which isn't to be seen in the darkness of
Babylon. Good for him. He can go on finally as he did before.
My hands stroke his skin. He lifts his head and closes his eyes.
"I have an offer from Hollywood."
"Hollywood?"
It's this kind of scared cry when I told him that my SAT-results had been
good enough to apply to a university outside Pennsylvanias that gave his
feelings away. Now and then. I take his hand, pull him into the bedroom and
push him gently upon the bed, meticulously aware of his sore shoulder. In a
huff I shed my garment and lie naked beside him, my fingers raking through
his hair. I love its length.
"Brett Keller offered me a job as assistant while he was filming
"Rage". I can do the story board."
His kind of silence tells me that he's in shock. And obviously embarrassed
that he played the fool again. Also this is a kind of bad timing. Whenever
he's wearing his heart on his tongue it's powerfully shoved back into his
throat. And this time it's me.
"Hey." I slide closer and suck in his scent of sandalwood. Sandalwood,
vanilla and a weak scent of cigarettes. A wicked combination. "I didn't
decide yet."
Liar.
You have given your word to Brett Keller to return and work with him. But
could I foretell that Brian would make a love declaration? A love
declaration of the special Brian-Kinney-kind? So, I'm excused. Brett knows
Brian and would understand.
He's still silent. It's still and warm in the loft. His lips taste like
lemon bars I had brought from the Diner, and bitter from beer, when I
cautiously glide over him. I don`t think he could ever resist me. And the
same goes for me. My tongue draws a line from his chin to his ear. "If you
want, I'm staying", I whisper and sense his cock jerking between my legs. I
believe our voices have always been an indicator for our excitement.
Brian relaxes. His eyes are closed and his mouth half-open. What if I would
take the opportunity and take what I want? Brian knows that I only bottom
for him. When I see him, I want to lie down.
His lashes cast long shadows on his skin. I want to blow them away and make
a wish. I bend my head and search for his lips. A soft licking first, then,
searching for the inside, I find his tongue and battle with it. Brian's
body's shivering and not long after that one of these deep sighs is singing
into my ear, and that's always driving me round the bend.
My buttocks are moving over his cock and I glide down, spreading kisses
upon his skin while Brian has already drifted off into his own world. The
long monster, lying over his abdomen waits to be taken into my mouth. I
catch the clear drops with my tongue, circle the glans and nibble at the
underside around the rim. When his hand digs into my hair, I know, he wants
more.
Brian was always right. I love cock. I love them down my throat, I love to
ride them and when he's finished, I love falling asleep with it deep inside
me. There's nothing wrong with that. I slide around and my tongue is
driving widely up from down while my hand massages his testicles. I never
consciently matched the today with yesterday. There wasn't a difference to
feel. And if Brian has managed to get it off his head, I don't have to
start to worry. Brian is Brian. He's not perfect, but for me, he is. And
anyway - perfection is boring.
The only thing perfect is the long monster that's growing larger before my
eyes and wants to be swallowed. I grin. Brian is breathing fast and his
skin shines bronze in the orange light. Too bad I can't paint him on
occasions like this. But I'm too busy for the moment. When his cock
strokes my gums and my teeth softly graze his skin, he's tugging harder at
my hair and his sounds are even deeper than ever. I guess, I have to stop
thinking now.
Funny, that memory only sets in when I have his bitter-sweet taste in my
mouth. Brian says, that you can identify the men by the taste of their
sperm. Sure, Brian. You're the biggest cock-sucker in the world. Which
reminds me: If Brian one day would give me a blow job in front of every eye
at Babylon that would be the biggest love declaration ever.
He's lying soft as a down feather upon the blue sheets and is breathing
heavily through his mouth. I never want to let go of him, turn his head to
me and press my lip on his. I feel him smiling.
"I taste good."
Sure you do, you son of a bitch.
-----------------------------------------
Justin's sperm cools down on my upper thigh and I feel the wetness on the
bed sheets. It's reminding me why I dislike taking guys home. Too much
dirt. But Justin's allowed. Sex is dirty. And as if he guessed my musing,
he plucks a tissue from the dispenser and cleans me up. After he sucked
every damn drop out of me. Justin's the best I ever had. No wonder, he
learned from the master.
He's lying next to me, one arm possessively wrapped around me and one leg
between mine. If I wouldn't be so fucking scared I could sleep now, but
Justin's going to Hollywood instead of staying here with me. How often do I
have to lose him before I can tell him about my feelings? Fuck it,
Kinney. What's so hard to tell about one fucking sentence?
I watch his long lashes. The soft, cream coloured skin, contrasting to my
own. Actually we both make a nice couple, don't we?
Why's he so silent? Wait, Kinney. He's asked you a question before he gave
you the blow job of your life - again. 'If you want to, I'm staying.'
Justin, you have no idea how much I want to. Has anybody of my so-called
friends ever taken such good care of me as you do? If I say I'm fine,
everyone's accepting it, without looking behind my facade.
My thoughts are spinning off. Justin sleeps at my side and I try despite
the pain to cover us with the blanket. Scenes are drifting by. Theodore's
unpitying comments when Justin left me. Me - God Kinney. Left! I don't say
a word about Melanie.
How fast everyone came to terms with me searching for a new boytoy after
Justin had been beaten almost to death and so becoming useless for me. Go
on and don't look back. Jennifer, the night nurse and me are the only
people who know that this is a lie. Some day I have to tell Justin all
about it.
When this Kip charged me, everyone thought I deserved it. I had fucked
myself. Damn right I did. And who saved my ass? Only the one who believed
in me, no matter what little-boy-fancy reasoned it. It wasn't
important. The motif never was important. Important is the outcome.
Even Michael was always highly irritated when I did something that didn't
fit the picture he had of me. For him there was always just him and me for
ever. The boys we were when we got drunk and ditched school. When I glued
the Biology teacher to the toilet and at our certificate-ceremony, when I
brought the stage to collapse.
Very funny, Mikey.
Alright, there was the money they paid me back as thanks for me saving
Liberty Avenue from Stockwell. But that was only Justin's initiative. As I
said, I don't want any thank. Just a little sympathy.
"Justin?" I move my shoulder and he awakes.
"You should go to Hollywood by all means."
His eyes blink sleepily. Then he's bright awake.
"I thought you wanted me to be here with you?"
"Not at that price."
"What price?"
"To botch up your life."
Now he's sitting upright in bed and wipes his face. "What botch up my life?
There will be other offers to come."
"Not many." I sigh and try to sit. The blanket glides down and his body
is so close to me. How shall I stand this? Without him? "Sunshine,
Hollywood is huge! You can fuck each star you see, not only Connor James."
He looks as if he wants to hit me. I hold him when he tries to step out of
the bed. "If you have one leg in Hollywood then you can build up your life
on it. It doesn't have to be only the story boards. What about your
painting, drawing? Maybe one day you move to Frisco and become a famous,
racked artist." My smile fails its intention.
"You're so stupid, Brian Kinney. First you ask me if I want to live with
you, then you scare me away. What do you want actually?"
Did I ever tell you that I love you, Justin Taylor?
I bend over him as far as my sore shoulder allows it. "Now listen to me,
Justin. You remember very well Ian's contract clause. You should vanish
from his life. You didn't want to. Neither did Ian. But he had to accept it
if he wanted to take the chance of his life. You didn't want him to make
reproaches on you, right? He would have said: You ruined my future because
you didn't want to stay away. Or couldn't."
He blinks and I know he understands.
"I said I want you here and I meant it. I understand though when you
don't want to leave me." My raised eyebrow speaks of arrogance, but my
smile is taking it back. "But I will do the hell and let you pass this
chance. You forced me to eat your chicken soup, now I force you to take the
pencil. And, if you want to come back... the room in my drawer stays
empty."
He drops his head and stares at the blanket. I lift his chin and plant a
kiss on his lips. "I'll miss you. And if you don't send me a damn picture
postcard each week from Sunset Boulevard, I'll kill you."
A droopy smile appears on his face. He wraps his arms around my neck and I
suck in his scent. He will return. I know it.
"And thanks for the blow job."
"Son of a bitch."
We grin at each other. I guess, a bad timing has also its fortunes.
END